


Yet Left Unspoken

by mapleandmahogany



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Attempted Rape, Dubious Consent, Eventual loss of faith, F/M, M/M, Mentions of corporal punishment/abuse, Multi, Romance, Slavery, Stockholm Syndrome, Threesome - F/M/M, dom/sub themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 08:45:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mapleandmahogany/pseuds/mapleandmahogany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place mainly during the time and events of Vikings Season 1, episode 3.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Ragnar introduces Athelstan to his family and then follows his wife inside...</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Yet Left Unspoken

**Author's Note:**

> The tags are rough but this is a fluffy fic, really! ...sorta.
> 
> I know that in S1E2 Athelstan says that he traveled to spread the Word, but George Blagden said that Athelstan had never seen a woman before. That's the angle I took here. (Fic completed before airing of episode 8.)

The children paw at him, pet him, and tug at his robes. They are thorough in their investigation, from looking at his teeth to exploring his sandalled feet.

“Is he a creature-pet made by the Gods?” the little girl muses.

“No, he is just a man.” 

Athelstan skitters away from them, realizing that the boy has peered under his robes to determine this fact, but they seem disinterested by his simple humanity after that and leave him be. 

He spends the remains of his first day working in turn with each family member but he is not very skilled with mending or tending livestock. He is educated, his pride insists, but that assists him little as a farm slave. He ends up shovelling manure, carrying baskets of fish, and chopping firewood. 

His tasks are made more difficult as he trips over the trailing line of the rope around his neck. In a moment of exasperation he huffs out loud and realizes too late that he’s caught Ragnar’s attention. Athelstan tries to make himself very small as Ragnar stalks towards him, thinking he’s going to be beaten for issuing complaint. Ragnar takes the rope, lifting slack in the line and Athelstan has a single moment of bliss when he thinks that Ragnar is going to remove the rope but instead he loops the line loosely around Athelstan’s neck like layers of a scarf. He stares into Athelstan’s eyes while he does it, issuing challenge that Athelstan has no intention of rising to.

The rope is still a burden, but he doesn’t trip on it again.

When the sun sets behind the mountain, they move into the house around the table. Gyda serves them each wooden bowls of stew. There’s plenty of bread, curds and small dark root vegetables to share. She gives her father a questioning glance before serving Athelstan a portion of the meat she’s already given her family. 

“Gyda-lamb,” Ragnar says. “Everyone in this house shares hunger and bounty alike. The priest will have what we all do.”

Athelstan senses this speech is meant for Lagertha and Bjorn too. Their faces show some scorn at the statement but they say nothing against it.

“It is our way,” he adds.

Athelstan thinks the way of Viking people has a good many customs he’d like to take issue with, but in this he’s glad to benefit.

He’s as tired as he is hungry. More than physically tired, he feels drained of all high order mental capacity and his nerves have been raw for days beyond counting. Before long he’s uncomfortably full of this rich, salty food and he’s staring dazedly at the contents that comprise a family household, gazing unconsciously at the people around the table.

“What is it? Why do you look at me like that?” Lagertha’s forceful demand stirs him to awareness and he’s mortified to realize he’d been staring, bleary and unthinking, at her neck and the upper curve of her bosom. He knows he will have appeared lecherous in her eyes but he was only appreciating the natural, human beauty of her, like appreciating the arch of dove’s wing or the rippling muscle in the flank of a roe deer.

“It is only -- that is, I have not...” He stammers, frightened and ashamed that he can’t explain himself.

“What, priest? Is there something you wish to say to me?” She doesn’t shout, but the steel in her voice and expression is daring him to do wrongly.

She stands and takes a angry step towards him. 

“I have never seen a woman!” he says, shrinking in his stool, raising an arm over his head, certain she is about to strike him.

“Fah! What do you mean by that?”

Athelstan considers his words for a moment, but he’s sure he has spoken the language correctly so he repeats himself. “I have never seen a woman? I mean no disrespect. I have only lived in the company of men. And you are...”

He doesn’t know how to describe Lagertha. She’s so much more than anything he’s imagined a woman to be. She is beautiful and as terrifying to him as her husband is. He wants to look at her, to study her form, to understand what makes a woman different from a man, but her ire, her very presence frightens him. 

“Are there no women in England?” Bjorn’s question comes in a tone of high-pitched disgust. “How do you reproduce? Do you have both sexes between your legs?”

Athelstan feels his face go warm and he looks at the table. 

“Pity the priest,” Ragnar says, laughing quietly between mouthfuls of his dinner. “These monks are held as slaves within the walls of their village, with only men.”

Athelstan does not believe that is an accurate reflection of his monastery, but also doesn’t believe now is the time to correct the notion. 

“And I remember when I saw your mother for the first time,” he continues, voice going low and somehow reminding Athelstan of a slithering viper. “I could not keep my eyes off her, either.” 

Ragnar smiles at his wife, playful yet almost feral, making the children giggle. Lagertha’s frown at Athelstan slowly softens towards her husband. Her expression to him becomes tender, yet also scolding and dismissive. Ragnar laughs then, along with his children, full of pride and then he gives his wife a coy look of apology but doesn’t actually look the least bit ashamed.

So much is communicated between these people in mere moments, with such subtle expressions and never a word is spoken. Athelstan has always thought himself a natural linguist, but he is not sure he could ever learn to speak as much as they do, without ever using words.

Lagertha re-takes her seat next to Ragnar and eats a piece of meat from his plate.

“If that is how it is, husband. But, you have a brought a strange man into our home. What if he is depraved and craves what he’s never had with a woman? Think of Gyda, she is still small.” 

Athelstan struggles to comprehend her suggestion. He’s the prisoner here, a rope around his neck, far from home, speaking another language, with people who have all the power over him. What harm could he pose?

Ragnar toggles his head side to side, considering his wife’s concern and then stuffs a strip of meat into his mouth before fixing his eyes on Athelstan.

“Then take this warning, priest; if you ever try to rape my children, I will beat you. I will cut you, and then I will hang you in the sun to make leather from your soft English hide.” Then he chuckles, darkly. “And may the gods help you if ever make an attempt on my wife. Do you understand me?”

Athelstan does, perfectly. He has no doubt this family would tear him to pieces if he tried such a thing, but the accusation offends him deeply. 

“I would never! I don’t even --.” He doesn’t know how to explain that he doesn’t even really understand what it means to rape. “I swear I would _never_ do such a thing.”

This time Ragnar’s warm smile settles on him and it has a remarkably calming effect. “I know,” he says. “Finish your food.”

Athelstan does. This much food is painful on his long empty stomach, but he doesn’t know when the next meal will come so he tries to make himself eat. 

He is given warm furs in the corner to sleep on. He can’t forget for a moment that he is a slave now, tracing fingers over the rope about his neck; but still, he feels safer here than he has in weeks, without the pitching of the sea threatening to claim the small boat or the menacing glares of the Vikings. He begins his prayers but too exhausted, he sleeps deeply and without dreams.

~

His sight is unclear at first, but the figure swimming into clarity is Ragnar. His breeches are low on his hips, the crease at the top of his buttocks visible. The muscles of his back and shoulders flex as he pulls his tunic over his head. His body is unlike any Athelstan has seen before. Ragnar seems somehow _more_ than a mere man, but he can’t think of word for it that isn’t blasphemous. 

Athelstan realizes he’s not just dreaming, that he can hear the family moving about, beginning their day. He hasn’t moved yet, only has one eye open enough to watch Ragnar dressing where he stands next the bed he shares with Lagertha.

Ragnar walks toward the front room, still sleepy and slow, a loose hand barely keeping his breeches from falling down. Somehow he knows that Athelstan is not asleep and he stops before Athelstan’s makeshift bed. Ragnar meets his eye directly while he properly ties the closer. Athelstan can see light brown hair just above the bulge standing against the thin fabric. He doesn’t know if this is a threat or a tease but Athelstan still feels warm and ashamed and looks away.

 

Lagertha is taking Bjorn and Gyda to visit a family whose baby has died, each of them carrying a basket of tools and goods. Athelstan wonders at these people who will conquer at will and without care but still share a sense of community. The Viking warriors killed nearly everyone he knows and yet they grieve for another family’s child. He doesn’t understand, but he makes the sign of the cross and prays for the little one’s soul.

Ragnar kisses Gyda’s forehead, cuffs Bjorn on the shoulder before pressing a kiss to his crown, and then gives Lagertha an embrace, pulling her close and arching into her. She grips the back of Ragnar’s breeches and pulls him hard against her, arching into his hand on her breast. When they slowly pull apart from each other, Athelstan feels the strain for them. They look just right together. Even when what they are doing makes him feel too warm and uncomfortable, he is drawn to watch how they show affection for each other. 

She glances at Athelstan and then gives Ragnar a long, shrewd look. 

"Deal with your priest," Lagertha says, taking up her basket.

Ragnar shrugs, seeming noncommittal in reply, about what Athelstan doesn’t know. They share this look often and it always makes Athelstan feel like they’re planning to have him for dinner.

He shovels the barn and lays fresh hay for the animals and by the time he’s done, he’s dripping sweat, aching in his ribs; his hand feels like it’s about to tear in several places. He’s not accustomed to this kind of work.

“We work inside for the rest of the day,” Ragnar tells him as he heads into the house. “It will rain soon. Collect and boil water for a bath." 

Athelstan does as he’s told, stumbling with weariness from the morning’s labor.

He carries two buckets of water from the lake, and boils a large potful with cuttings of rosemary that Gyda had used. 

“It is ready,” Athelstan says, when the basin of warm scented water is prepared. assuming Ragnar wants to bathe.

"Good,” he says, and looks at him, waiting. “Go on then. Lagertha says you smell worse than the goats. You can not sleep inside again until you have. So..." Ragnar motions with his hand.

Athelstan startles at that. Bathing was not permitted at the monastery. Father Cuthbert said it was a vain and Pagan ritual. Athelstan didn’t work out doors like many of the Brothers had; he’s never been so filthy in his life. Lagertha is right, he smells of fear and waste and death. He yearns to erase the stench of the horrors he’s witnessed, but he still is not sure of the propriety of it.

"What stays you, priest? Your people do bathe, yes?"

Athelstan shakes his head. "My duty was to write the Word, so I cleansed my hands daily before touching the paper. We were taught that bathing was --” he doesn’t want to insult Ragnar “--inappropriate for men of God.”

Ragnar frowns at that. “Your god is that proud of the smell of pig shit?”

"No. It wasn’t...” Athelstan wants to explain. “We monks are meant to be humble and to avoid sinful pleasures of the body. Which includes bathing." He doesn't mention how he often longed to bathe; how he would stand in the rain, or volunteer for fishing, for the incidental opportunity to get clean.

He always prayed forgiveness for the sin, and for his disobedience.

"Then, shall I show you how it is done?" Ragnar stepped close, reaching for the cloth of knitted yarn that Gyda used to wash the cookware.

" _No_ ," Athelstan says quickly, seizing the cloth from Ragnar before he realizes himself. "I can…" Athelstan clears his throat, tries not to blush at the thought of it. "What I mean to say is; here?"

Ragnar gestures an open palm at the bath water, looking bemused that they are even still discussing this.

Athelstan nods his acceptance of the order and unties his cincture. He fidgets, hesitant to remove his robe with Ragnar standing there watching him.

To his relief, Ragnar seems to realize Athelstan's modesty. He grins, mutters something in a chuckle under his breath and takes his seat at the table where he's been fletching new arrows.

"I'm not leaving you alone, priest. In time perhaps, but not yet. Continue."

Once he takes up an arrow and his blade, Ragnar doesn't seem particularly interested in Athelstan.

Athelstan wonders if the presence of the blade is meant to intimidate him. It does, he acknowledges, very much, though he would be sufficiently intimidated without the glint of the knife anyway. Ragnar isn’t watching him, but he's only a short distance away as Athelstan pulls his robe over his head. He had already tried to soak off the worst of the caked mud and filth from his feet and the hem and cuffs of his robe in the lake, but it's a relief to have it off, even if doing so leaves him naked in front of the Viking. He takes the cloth and washes his face, neck and throat. He’s aware of Ragnar's eyes on him occasionally, but Athelstan focuses on his work. He plans to pray for forgiveness for taking pleasure in this luxury – if it _is_ a luxury when he's being ordered to do so?

He washes his back as best as he can reach, then his chest, arms and legs, and his feet are not that dirty as he regularly wades in the water's edge. He glances shyly to Ragnar to see if he's watching before reaching back to run the cloth up his backside and then turns his back to Ragnar completely to wash his manhood.

As he finishes, he hears Ragnar move towards him. He stands stock still, as Ragnar circles into his vision. The ever-present tremble begins to creep up his spine again and gooseflesh ripples across his arms, though he's quite warm by the fire. Ragnar looks at him studiously, a frown between his brows. Athelstan feels small and soft compared to the Viking's bulk as he towers over him.

"What?" Athelstan says, frustrated, embarrassed and scared, he tries to keep his voice steady.

"I thought you priests did not fight," Ragnar says.

Athelstan blinks. "I – that is true. Yes. Why?"

"Your back bears marks of battle."

"Does it?" Athelstan asks. He's never seen his own back beyond the tops of his shoulders. "I did not know any marks remained."

"Were you beaten?"

Athelstan flinched. He didn’t like to speak of it. "I was disciplined with the rod at times."

Ragnar's eyebrow shot up and he grins, wide. " _You_? I did not take you for a rebel."

Athelstan feels a thrill at the apparent rising in Ragnar's esteem, though he's simultaneously offended at the suggestion. He's always been ashamed of his punishments. "I have always tried to be a good priest. I am obedient. Or, I strive to be. But I have always asked too many questions. Father believed I was challenging the Word. I only wanted to better understand."

Ragnar's grin falters and the frown returns. "A smart person asks many questions. It was wrong to beat you for that."

Athelstan tries to tamp down the swell of pride he feels at Ragnar's praise. It's absurd that this Viking, responsible for killing almost everyone he knows and who has taken him for a slave, would disapprove of the Father's discipline of him. Athelstan never received sympathy for the rod taken to his back. It is unexpected that the kindness should come from his captor, of all people.

His mind reels from this confused sense of gratitude as he's just as quickly reminded of his vulnerability when Ragnar circles him again. Ragnar touches him as he examines, strokes a hand over the now fuzzy growth of his tonsure, squeezes at the muscle of his shoulder and arm, presses fingertips against the jut of his ribs and clavicle. Athelstan tries to stand firm, to withstand this trial. He does not think Ragnar's touch is lecherous, but his nudity and cleanliness already feels like a sin, and Athelstan can't figure out the intention behind the mischievous sparkle in those blue eyes 

Ragnar seizes his right hand and examines the palm, the curve of his thumb, the knuckles on his fingers.

"Your hand is too soft for hard work, yet this shows use." Ragnar circles his thumbpad over the raised callous on the first knuckle of Athelstan’s third finger.

"From writing. Making the marks that you saw in my book. That was my work."

Ragnar grunts, that all inclusive noise that sounds like acknowledgement, derision and dismissal all at once. He takes Athelstan's left hand next and strokes the back of it, over the irregular lumps along the bones.

"This... I would guess your shield hand has been crushed by a heavy blow, a hammer maybe? But as you do not fight, that can not be what caused this."

"No. I also received the rod to that hand for writing with it. I would forget sometimes, to use the proper hand."

"You are a cack-hand? Like Floki. Cack-hands are smart. It is bad in a sword fight, exposes weakness to the enemy, but I do not see why it should matter for making your marks. Damaging a strong hand with a rod is foolish. You should have taken this rod against the priest who beat you."

Athelstan almost laughs, shocked at the idea. "I would never – that would be – no," he stutters.

Ragnar squints, frowning more and steps closer. "If anyone strikes you, Athelstan, you knock them down."

"You don’t understand. Father had a right to discipline me. It was not my place to protest."

Ragnar nods slowly, like he agrees. "But you are here now, and I tell you: fight back."

"What if-" Athelstan falters, fear rising in his throat, but he can't not ask. "What if it is you, who strikes me?"

Ragnar smiles. "If I strike you, it will be with just cause.” He shrugs “But you can still try to knock me down if you like."

Athelstan shakes his head. “I would not.” This whole conversation is preposterous and he doesn't understand why Ragnar encourages him and mocks him in the same breath.

Ragnar steps back and assesses him once more, his eyes trailing all the way down, tilting his head to see the curve of his backside, smirking as he looks at his quiescent manhood. Athelstan's hands twitch to cover himself but for some reason he doesn't dare.

"There were no women where we took you. Is this because the men lie together?"

"No. We are chaste. That would be sinful, it is forbidden," he says, but at the look of surprise, he adds, "though, yes, it happened sometimes. In secret."

“I knew it! And tell me, these priests, did they like the look of you?" Ragnar asks. "In secret?"

Athelstan wants more desperately to cover himself now. He shakes his head. "No. I don't know. It was forbidden, as I said, and I was obedient. Anyhow, I do not think the brothers who took to each other did so for appreciative looks." He thought of Brother Galway and Brother Cadfael; neither were anything to look at, old, marked and round, but Athelstan knew of their secret. He never exposed them, he realizes now he was being disobedient even in that. He believed that God knew about them, and would punish them as He saw fit, but Athelstan didn't want them to suffer the Father's discipline. 

"It is true,” Ragnar says. “The look of a person is not always the measure of strong bond. But I like the look of you, priest, and I know not why. You are not strong, but you are in health. You have much dark hair on your body." Ragnar stokes his hand down Athelstan's chest and abdomen, scruffing his fingers through the thick thatch of growth below his belly. "Yet it is still soft, like mine." Ragnar is close now, tall and looming and his touch stirring, startling.

"Please," Athelstan says without thinking.

"Please?" Ragnar repeats, leaning impossibly closer, his smile questioning.

Athelstan has to swallow, to wet his throat against the dry shudder of fear choking him. "Please …do not."

Ragnar cocks his head and smiles. "Do you fear me?"

Athelstan nods immediately, trembling but unable to look away from Ragnar's eyes.

"What is it you fear I will do to you?"

"I …Kill me? Beat me? R-rape me?"

Ragnar's expression changes, gentles into the patient amusement he shows his children.

"I have no plan to kill you. Our Gods brought you to me. I want to find out why.” Ragnar takes a lock of Athelstan’s hair between his fingers. “If I ever beat you, you will deserve it and you will know the reason for it.” Ragnar curves his hand over the back of Athelstan’s neck. “And I will not rape you, priest. But know this," he leans close, casting his eyes down along Athelstan's body before speaking softly, lips brushing his ear, "I will bed you one day."

A whimper escapes Athelstan's throat, beyond his control. He's not sure if the relief he feels is the assurance of his relative safekeeping at his captor's hand, or of the promise just made. He will pray on it.

Ragnar reaches past Athelstan, his chest pressing against Athelstan's body and he can feel the heat of him. He closes his eyes and waits, but when he senses space between Ragnar and himself again he opens his eyes. Ragnar is holding linen cloth to him and smirking, like he wants to laugh openly at Athelstan's obvious fear. "Put this on while you wash that stinking rag of yours."

The linen is a tunic that belongs to Ragnar. It's the softest cloth he's ever had against his skin. It's warm, like the man himself, and the hem falls to his thighs, gratefully covering his sinful nakedness. It also smells of him, of the sea and evergreen trees and the sex-sweat smell he shares with his wife. It has a calming effect that settles his rattled nerves.

"Tell me about your writing, priest," Ragnar tells him, returning to his arrows. "What is this that holds such value that it is the only reason you wash yourself, and warrants the stupid damaging of an able cack-hand."

Athelstan soaks his robe in the scented water and hopes it will smell like Ragnar's tunic, while he tells him John's Cleansing of the Temple. 

Spreading the word of God had been his mission and he knows that he is skilled at the telling. He tries to be mindful that he is the Lord’s instrument, that the Lord is the reason for Ragnar's rapt attention. Athelstan recognizes his pride for what it is, this time, and adds humility to the list of things he will pray for.

~

He wakes the next morning to the sound of Lagertha and the children returning. He sits up, rubbing his bleary eyes as they focus on the children bickering. He finds himself smiling at them, immediately fond of the sound of family.

“Good morning, priest,” Bjorn says. “You do not smell so bad today.”

Lagertha, not unkindly, whaps Bjorn in the back of the head. "Go help your father with the wood."

Athelstan realizes he can hear the distant thunk of Ragnar's axe.

Lagertha catches his eye and she surveys him much in the same way her husband had, smirking as her eyes skim down his body. The hem of Ragnar's tunic had shifted considerably above his thigh during his sleep. He stands quickly, embarrassed, tugging at the tunic to cover himself.

He’s much more aware of his body under this thin tunic than he ever is wearing his robe.

"Much better," Lagertha says, after surveying him. He’s not sure if she’s referring to him being bathed or something else. "You look rested. You slept well?" He feels like she’s asking about something other than his sleep but he doesn't know what it is. 

"I did. And you? Were you able to help the family?"

"We did what we could." Lagertha shrugs. She acts dismissive but the burden shows in her eyes. "A family grieving a child is a crushing weight to endure. We helped with the livestock and some housework.” She moves, leaning the doorway, staring unfixed to where she can see her family at work. Bjorn doing his best to mimic Ragnar and Gyda tending her goats. Athelstan is struck by a sense of envy, of yearning, for this familial bond they share.

Lagertha shakes herself though, as though she could physically shrug off the oppressive feeling and tucks a thin braid behind her ear. She manages the emotional transition with ease and the openness on her face is stunning to Athelstan. She's lovely, he thinks, and he forgets himself as he watches her. He starts when he realizes that she's caught him out and is looking back at him with that same predatory, secret smirk that Ragnar gives him. Her weight is settled onto one hip and her arms crossed pushing up her bosom and Athelstan feels himself being as moved by her curves as he is by Ragnar's bulk. He looks away, muttering an apology as he reaches for his robe hanging in front of the fire to dry.

"Ragnar's tunic becomes you. Gyda will make you one."

"That is not necessary."

"She needs the practice, and you can learn. It will be good for both of you." She waves a hand in that dismissive way declaring finality on the matter that brooks no disagreement. "You will need the layers before the cold season anyway."

He nods acceptance, reluctant to be thankful for a gift from his captors, and remembers that he is not ever going back to England. At least they intend to keep him, he thinks, gratefully, and not sell him.

He wants to change in privacy but Lagertha is blocking his way to the other room, or from going outside and he's not sure if it's by design, or if he's even allowed to ask for the privacy. She definitely seems to be waiting for him carry on, so he sighs, resigns himself, and turns his back. He takes off the soft linen tunic and puts on his robe as quickly as he can. When he turns around Lagertha is facing away, sorting through her basket of goods. He doesn't know if she watched him or not; they keep him so confused.

He doesn't know what to do with himself but he feels the need to make his presence known to Ragnar, to find out what his master wants of him today. As he goes, Lagertha calls out, "and that arse of yours will be flattered by a pair of breeches, as well."

Athelstan blushes all the way to the woodshed.

~

He has a good morning, working with the animals with Ragnar, repairing fishing nets with the children and he sits at the table with the family when they eat. They ask him questions about England, about his order and of his Lord, which he answers with honesty but withholds some truths. They laugh at him when he makes mistakes, which are many, but they also teach him so he can correct his errors. Ragnar and Lagertha are gentle enough with Gyda, but they often strike and shove Bjorn, though never cruelly so. The smacks to his head and punches to his shoulders are delivered with praise and Bjorn bears up well. Once Athelstan stops comparing it to the rod taken to him, he surmises this must be the path to becoming a strong Northman like Ragnar. Athelstan doesn't think the discipline he received made him strong, but then his rod wasn't delivered by parents like these.

The day goes well until Ragnar stands in front of him, taking hold of the line of rope at his neck.

“I haven’t tried to escape,” Athelstan says. “You don’t need to tie me up. I’m --I’ve been obedient.”

Ragnar settles his stance and bends slightly to address him, like he’s gentling a horse and the message is clear; you have no choice in the matter.

"I have business and you will accompany me. Trust me, priest, you do not want to be without line on your neck."

Athelstan objects deeply to being on a lead like an ass. He is maybe obedient, but he’s not above being petulant either.

"You can pout all you like but walk faster," Ragnar says, tugging him. He gives up trying to talk to Athelstan on the walk when he refuses to participate in conversation.

In the village, Ragnar makes trades, purchases, and drinks with a few men. Athelstan is still being petulant about being led about on a leash, but in truth he’s in fascinated observation. The customs of the tradesmen, the men, the _women_ , there’s so much about Norse life to learn. Most folk ignore him completely, like he’s invisible, and he begins to forget himself. He hasn’t realized that Ragnar has dropped his line when he stops to watch a kind of game with small pebbles tossed onto a board. There is a crowd gathered around, cheering and jeering and making wagers. Athelstan strains to peer between bodies to see how the game works, when he’s grabbed from behind and abruptly shoved against a cotter’s table.

“Little lost slave, is it?” comes a voice from behind. The male voice speaks the Norse tongue but with a dialect slightly different that what he’s used to. “You a run-away?”

“No!” Athelstan tries to shout but he can barely catch breath through his fear. He hears a dirty laugh between two men as he’s held down, the side of his head pressed to the table while his robe is pulled up. “No, don’t!” he struggles to say. 

His mind is racing with fear, struggling to make the right words, to understand what they say. He hears something like “good” and something about “pretty smelling” and feels a man’s body hair against the backs of his thighs and buttocks. 

This is what rape is, he realizes. He is about to be raped and there are people all around them, but none of them care. He truly is invisible, a slave of no value to anyone. To anyone except --

“Ragnar!” he manages to say. 

The two men seem to shove at each other, fighting to take their place behind him. 

“I belong to Ragnar Lothbrok!” Athelstan shouts this time and in the moment of pause between the men, Athelstan twists and stumbles away. 

When he looks up he sees the very man he named and Athelstan lunges toward him. Ragnar catches his arm to keep him stumbling and but lets him circle behind, away from his attackers, still repeating the words, “I belong to Ragnar Lothbrok.”

Ragnar smiles softly at Athelstan over his shoulder, standing strong and still so that Athelstan can press close to him.

“Did you damage my property?” Ragnar asks the men, voice soft.

They stutter stupidly in response. 

“Do you intend to pay me for the service you take from my slave?”

Athelstan can see that while they may be Northmen, they are also low, not warriors or men of standing like Ragnar and his crew.

“Not stealin’. Just using a foreign slave. Don’t hurt nothin’.”

“Hm.” Ragnar hums, sounding content, mild. “Come here,” he says, beckoning with his fingers. The man, stupid as he is, takes Ragnar’s gentle voice and pleasing look, at face value. He doesn’t see what Athelstan has always seen, that there is much more to him that what presents on the surface. 

When the man is close enough, blinking up at him expectantly, Ragnar punches him, his nose exploding in a spray of blood. Then, just as quickly, he throws a knife that sticks right into the second man’s arm before he’s even realized what happened. They both drop to the ground, squealing like pigs, and Athelstan doesn’t feel at all sorry for them. Ragnar yanks his blade out of the man’s arm, wiping the blade clean on his shoulder. 

“Don’t hurt nothin’,” Ragnar says, mocking their simple speech as he passes, nudging one with his knee so that he falls over into the mud.

“Come, priest,” he says, taking hold of Athelstan’s rope and leads him away. 

Athelstan prays while he follows, stumbling when the shock fades and he begins to tremble. His sandal catches on a root and he lurches forward onto his knees. The fall knocks the air out of him out of him, and then he can’t regain it. He can hear the anxiety in his ragged, gasping breaths and think he would easily weep if he weren’t too ashamed to let Ragnar see.

Ragnar walks back to him and sinks to one knee, studying him with curiosity. “You are not hurt.”

Athelstan shakes his head. In truth, he isn’t injured at all, but he still feels victimized. 

“I wish you’d killed them.” He’s surprised by his unthinking words. It’s not a charitable or forgiving thing for him to think, but once he says it, he realizes how angry he is.

“They paid a just penalty for their pettiness,” Ragnar says. “I could not take their lives for merely attempting to rob me.”

“ _Rob_ you? Is that all?” Athelstan says, his voice raising to what may be the first angry tone he’s ever used with Ragnar.

Ragnar leans his face close, his expression unreadable but his eyes sending warning like he does to Bjorn when the boy speaks out of turn. He slides his fingers around the back of Athelstan’s neck, under the rope, and pulls him forward, in a move Athelstan wasn’t expecting and is entirely grateful for. He presses his forehead to Ragnar’s shoulder, shedding silent tears where Ragnar won’t see them. He still feels a distant, petulant urge to pull away, to protest that violating him is a lesser consideration than using Ragnar’s property without payment, but mostly he is just appallingly grateful for the protection. Athelstan shuffles forward on his knees, hands clutching at Ragnar’s tunic, clinging to him.

He expects to be shaken off, but Ragnar keeps still, breathing steadily so that Athelstan can mimic him. He doesn’t rock him, or shush, or hold Athelstan, but his thumb strokes back and forth over the tense muscle at the back of his skull. 

“You are not hurt,” Ragnar says again, though more insistently this time. Athelstan nods against his shoulder, wiping his eyes with a deep sighing breath, taking in the salty scent of him. “Let us go home, Athelstan. There are comforts for us there.”

Athelstan goes straight to his corner, takes out the Book of Saint John and reads. He speaks the Latin aloud, not wanting to hear Ragnar tell the family what happened. His sense memory keeps hearing the vile disregard in the mens’ voices, remembers the stomach-swimming sensation of being held down and exposed, and feeling their hands on his body. It swirls with the memory of hearing his Brothers screaming and the sight of their grotesquely mutilated bodies.

Athelstan hugs the book tightly to his chest, squeezes his eyes shut. _I’m lost, Lord,_ he prays. _I’m lost. Can’t you find me?_. He recites verse again and again, trying to remember finding solace in them. So lost in the torment of his mind, he loses all awareness of time. The sudden interruption startles him and he opens his eyes and looks without thinking. Lagertha is astride Ragnar in their bed. He understands that there is no sin in a husband and wife lying together, but he is troubled by the roughness of it. He doesn’t understand how they can take to each other with such vigor, thinking of his treatment at the hands of those men. Their low moans and quiet intense grunts of exertion sound only like pleasure. Athelstan wants to see them, but his body begins to rouse and he feels so ashamed. He closes his eyes again but that doesn’t block out the sounds they make. He tries to fill his inner ear with practiced words of prayer until --

“Athelstan! We want to ask you something...”

Ragnar looks no less powerful a warrior when naked, all firm muscle with his cock standing, the very picture of virility. Athelstan also longs to follow the long line of Lagertha’s thigh as she teases him. His body aches to be touched, to feel ...what? He feels so simple for not knowing more about these things. 

For just a moment he wishes they would make him go. That Ragnar would take him by the arm to their bed, that Lagertha would remove his clothing; that he wouldn’t have to decide...

The Lord is testing him, he realizes. No, he may not have a choice about being taken from the abbey or being made a slave, and he yet may still be tortured and killed in this faraway land, but he can decide not to turn away from God tonight.

“I’ve taken a vow of chastity,” he explains, the words hardly convince himself, but they leave him alone, laughing quietly together. He thanks the Lord for the strength to resist temptation, but as he listens to them begin again, he feels only regret for not being brave enough to go with them, and all the more ashamed for it.

 

His darkest hour comes after a fitful night of torment. All night long, he never feels the Lord’s presence and while he refused the Lothbrok’s bed, his mind and body are still consumed with lust. At the water’s edge he longs for baptism, to feel pure again. He removes the rope from his neck without thought, wanting to wash away the sin, to claw into his very skin to find the wholesome boy he once was. The touch of the hair growth of his beard and tonsure finally makes him weep. He feels like he’s grown into a beast, the sins of his mind and body made visible.

“Why do you do this?” Lagertha asks him, after sending the children for their breakfast. She presses a cloth to his head to staunch the bleeding he caused.

“God has abandoned me for a sinner,” he tells her. Wiping tears and blood from his face. “Perhaps, if I make myself presentable to Him again...”

She hums, the same dismissive acknowledgment Ragnar often does, and takes the blade from his hand. Without another word she stands behind him and finishes shaving his tonsure. He doesn’t for one moment fear the blade in her hand. She works efficiently, in silence, and Athelstan whispers the prayer to himself.

When she finishes, she takes his chin in hand and lifts his face. 

“No more of this, Athelstan,” she says. “Not again." She turns his head, considering him. "And you will remain bearded. It suits you.”

Athelstan looks into her eyes and he knows he’ll obey. The first time his hair was cut was when he accepted his Orders. It seems fitting somehow, that the last time he is tonsured, he accepts orders in his new home. The semblance of ritual, when he’s so longing for it, satisfies him. 

She strokes his jaw gently, then leans down and kisses him on the lips. He has only a moment to feel his heart skip before she grips his chin and shakes his head playfully, leaning into his face making big silly eyes at him. For the first time in too long, he smiles, almost laughs.

Ragnar was right. This home has comforts for him. 

Still, Ragnar grunts and grumbles about his freshly shorn hair and puts the rope about his neck again. Athelstan finds he doesn’t mind wearing it, if it will make himself pleasing in Ragnar’s eyes.

They drink honeyed wine and Athelstan’s mind swims as he answers questions about England and the Church. He finds peace in conversation with Ragnar, drunken though he is. He thinks maybe he can’t be a good priest in this land, but he can still try to be a good Christian. And maybe he and Ragnar can have a friendship, the likes of David and Jonathan. Athelstan thinks he could be a good friend.

 

His mood is so improved that when Ragnar takes him to Kattegat the next day, he doesn’t protest. He’s very afraid, but puts faith in the safety of being at the end of the rope in Ragnar’s hand. 

It’s not until he’s before the Earl on his knees that he hears Ragnar’s request to raid again, that he realizes his terrible mistake.

“Lord, forgive me for what I’ve done,” he says, and gets a smack for it.

These people take and kill, and now he’s been made a party to it. Athelstan doesn’t know what he can do, but the sight of his dead brothers outside the longhouse pushes him to take a stand. Sinking to his knees, it’s the first time he’s been openly defiant. 

It occurs to him that he has served his purpose to Ragnar. He has taught him English words and told him what he needs to know to go slaughter more Englishmen. Since he’s resisted going to Ragnar’s bed, maybe he has no use further use for him.

Athelstan expects the knife, hopes the cut will be deep and that death will come quickly.

“Run away if you want.” 

But he can not. He’s more frightened after he’s cut free. He stands and follows Ragnar, this time by choice.

Every plea attempt he makes to stop the raid is dismissed. As the family spends the day preparing for their departure, Athelstan finds himself growing in concern that Lagertha and Ragnar may never return. After the children are sent to bed, he follows the candle light to their bedchamber. He watches Lagertha shave Ragnar’s head, leaving long golden tresses at the top. 

All of their clothing is drying on the lines in front of the fire, including Athelstan’s own robe, leaving him in only his shift. Ragnar is barely covered at all, only wearing a section of cloth wrapped around him and tucked in at the waist. With his hair loose upon his shoulders, Athelstan wonders if even Adam standing in the middle of the Garden of Eden could have been as beautiful. 

Lagertha’s under gown is so thin he can see the outline of her body underneath, see the dark shadow of her nipples and he tries to catch a glimpse of the join of her legs without being caught out. She and Ragnar share one of their smiles that speaks on many levels and Ragnar closes his eyes, tipping his head back, completely at ease in his wife’s hands.

“We know you are there, priest. Come closer,” Lagertha says, never looking at him.

Athelstan goes, feeling not unlike he’s crawling into the lion’s den. He kneels onto the bed, mirroring Lagertha’s position on Ragnar’s other side with Ragnar sitting between them.

“You can help. Do like this,” Lagertha says, finger-parting a section of Ragnar’s hair and indicating Athelstan should do the same on the other side. He waits though, feels he needs permission from Ragnar first. 

Ragnar opens his eyes and looks up into Athelstan’s face. He quirks a crooked kind of grin at him, somehow acknowledging that he is allowing Athelstan to take a position above him.

Athelstan bows his head slightly and then slowly extends a hand, touching his fingertip to Ragnar’s smooth temple, stroking through Ragnar’s beard to the curve of his jaw. Eyes still fixed on each other’s, Ragnar turns his head and catches Athelstan’s finger with his teeth. Athelstan only has time to gasp before Ragnar grabs his hand and turns the bite into a kiss pressed to the finger. Athelstan has seen how cats toy with their prey and he finds that he’s oddly compelled and at peace playing the part of mouse. 

“Like this?” he asks Lagertha, feeling bold as he takes up Ragnar’s hair.

He watches how she rats tiny sections of hair with a fine comb, then smooths and plaits them together with more segments of hair. When Athelstan tries to copy her work his hands are awkward, jerky and Ragnar growls.

“Sorry,” Athelstan says, but then immediately tugs a fine strand of hair again.

“Fah!” Ragnar barks and flails an arm awkwardly behind him, smacking the side of Athelstan’s thigh.

“I’m sorry! I’ve never done this before,” he says.

“That is clear. No need to have shorn the hair,” he snarks, as if speaking only to Lagertha. “Athelstan could have ripped it out by the root.”

Lagertha bites her lip.

“Maybe you would have me just cut it off at the crown, in your style?” Ragnar rants on.

“No,” Athelstan says. “Your way is better. It suits you.” He clears his throat. “Just this bit more, I almost have it.” All ten of his fingers are beginning to cramp, and he feels like he needs at least ten more. 

“Keep the weave close to the scalp,” Lagertha says, peering at his work.

Athelstan tugs too hard again, making Ragnar hiss and pull away but Athelstan is concentrating so hard on the different pieces and so near to losing it all, without thinking he jerks Ragnar by the hair, yanking his head back into place, saying, “be still!”

He gasps when he realizes what he’s done, freezing in a moment of shocked silence before Lagertha and Ragnar both sputter into laughter.

It feels like his innards turn to jelly as relief prickles out of his body, making gooseflesh tingle up his spine. “Oh yes, fine. Har. Very amusing,” he grumbles, trying to recover. They only laugh harder. 

“You have done well,” Lagertha says, stroking her hand down the middle of Athelstan’s back and down his backside. “Here, I will finish.” She pats his bottom, urging him to move.

Athelstan sits back, and watches her finish the plait, weaving in bits of cloth and tying it off at the end. When she’s done, Ragnar looks up at her and she runs her fingertips along the edge of his cut hairline and then holds his face, looking into his eyes. 

“You are ready,” she says, and kisses him.

Ragnar pulls her to him, his hands squeezing her buttocks and presses his face between her breasts. Athelstan finds himself smiling, feeling warm and affectionate in the gold glow of the firelight. He's quite content to be permitted to be this close to them. He doesn’t need to be the object of their love and attention, just being near to them is enough. 

 

Through the opening in Lagertha’s thin gown, Athelstan can see the curve of her breast. He keeps his head bowed but leans slightly, trying to see more. 

“I see you looking at me, Athelstan,” Lagertha says, startling him. 

“Forgive me--”

“Shush. Come here.” She sits in front of him, her knees touching his. “Give me your hand.” 

Athelstan looks at Ragnar and then back to her. He’s been feeling very safe and happy with them here, and they’ve invited him to their bed before, but he’s still not sure this isn’t a trick. Sometimes he can not read the truth behind their beautiful faces.

Still, he does as he’s told and extends his hand, pausing in the air between them to clench his fingers. 

“Go on,” Ragnar says. “It is permitted. Use the hand that leads you. None will strike it.” Ragnar cups his hand over Athelstan’s wrong hand. Until Ragnar had said it, Athelstan hadn’t realized that he was remembering the crack of Father’s rod across the back of it.

Lagertha makes a piteous noise, and clucks her tongue, muttering a word Athelstan doesn’t know, but he believes is endearment. 

Ragnar settles behind Athelstan, his legs wide, holding Athelstan’s back close to his chest. One arm wraps around his middle, holding him tightly enough that Athelstan couldn’t say if he is being restrained or embraced, but in either case, he is content in Ragnar’s arms.

Taking him by the wrist, Lagertha places his hand on her breast. Athelstan’s breath catches at the touch, looking from his hand to her face.

“Do you like this?” she asks.

He nods, gulping a breath when Ragnar squeezes his hand, gently molding their fingers over her flesh. She shifts his hand then, still covered by Ragnar’s, and slides it inside the low cut of her gown. 

“And this? Better?”

“Ngh-” he begins, but has to swallow to find his voice. “Yes. Forgive me, I do. You are...” He almost laughs, finding himself overwhelmed. “I have not the words to convey your indomitable value, my lady. I am not worthy of you.”

She lifts his hand from her breast to her lips, kissing his fingers. Then she sucks on the middle two, swirling her tongue around and between them.

It should feel absurd, he thinks, but finds it decadent. He’s removed from all further thought as Ragnar’s hand slides up his thigh.

“And this, Athelstan?” Ragnar whispers, breath tickling his ear. “Do you also enjoy this?” His hand is on Athelstan’s inner thigh, forefinger nudging at his bollocks. 

Athelstan closes his eyes and nods. He does enjoy it. It frightens him badly, this worldly, sinful thing, but he’s discovered that the things that scare him and hurt him, also excite him.

He gasps, arching his back when Ragnar takes his cock in hand. 

“Oh, there...” Lagertha holds his hand and slides closer, soothing him. “It is good. Let yourself feel these pleasures the Gods gave your body.” 

She pushes at Athelstan’s shift, exposing where Ragnar is stroking him.

“I can feel how you want release, Athelstan,” Ragnar says. “Your balls must ache to be so hard. Let them spill,”

Lagertha leans close over Athelstan’s shoulder to kiss Ragnar, hard on the mouth, and then she kisses Athelstan, his lips and his cheeks. She strokes his lower lip before sliding her fingers into his mouth.

Athelstan moans, overwhelmed by sensation as he tries to suck and lick her fingers like she had to his. He could never have guessed that having his mouth held wide and open would be so rousing but he convulses for breath when she removes her fingers, sorry for the loss.

He pushes back into Ragnar’s chest, turning his head to Ragnar’s, straining for touch, praise, and kiss, all of which Ragnar gives him while still tugging on Athelstan’s cock.

It’s unexpected, the touch, but he knows immediately what is happening; Lagertha’s wet finger pressing at his hole, and carefully but firmly breaching him.

He cries out, arching away from all the stimulation but they both hold him steady as he climaxes. It feels nothing like the lip-biting, guilt-riddled emissions he secreted in his dormitory at the monastery. This feels like burning from the inside out, everywhere struck with white lightning, and then as fast as the feeling consumes him, it is gone again. The feeling is gone, but Ragnar and Lagertha remain, holding him, petting him and kissing him. 

“Why are you so good to me?” he whispers when he can find his voice again.

They share a smile and chuckle against his skin where they continue kissing him. 

“You belong to us,” Lagertha says, a fingertip making little circles and lines over his body.

“Yes. I _am_ yours,” he says, swearing to what she says. Believing it with all his heart. “And I am _yours_ ,” he tells Ragnar, nuzzling into his neck and jaw. “What can I do to serve you now? Please tell me.”

Ragnar’s teeth clench and he veritably growls in reply to the offer. He reaches for the bunched up hem of Athelstan’s shift and pulls it over his head and off. 

“Now take off hers,” Ragnar says, holding him by the hips, pushing at him.

Athelstan moves to her immediately. He’s less conscious of his nudity before her than he would have expected.

“My lady?”

“Mm-hm...?” The shift of shoulders, the way she purses her lips and raises an eyebrow is such a flirt that Athelstan has to break eye contact; he’s smiling when he reaches up and pushes her gown away from each shoulder, letting it fall in a heap on the bed around their knees.

Ragnar crowds into him from behind, Athelstan can feel him tug the cloth away from around his hips, leaving him bare and hard along Athelstan’s backside.

“I would have you tonight, Athelstan, but I can not take the time for it. Remain close by.”

Ragnar barely has time to move from away from Athelstan and Lagertha lunges for him. They’re passionate and wild and right in front of him to see everything. Lagertha throws her weight onto her husband, landing on top of him as he falls onto the bed but he immediately flips them over, her knees rising on either side of him.

Athelstan slides to sit closer, glad to have had Ragnar’s instruction to do what he wants to do anyway; to remain close.

He watches them kiss each other, not only with lips but with their tongues and teeth. Athelstan hasn’t kissed much of anyone in his life but he loved feeling their lips on his face and body, so he carefully leans close enough to press a kiss to Lagertha’s shoulder, and then Ragnar’s.

Ragnar rises up onto his knees, pushing up Lagertha’s thigh with a hard grip behind her knee. She is spread open and Athelstan can see for the first time the parting of her womanhood. 

“Give me your hand,” Ragnar says, and grabs it before Athelstan can gather his wits. He guides their hands to her body and presses over the mound of her. She’s warm and wet and writhing up against them. 

“Husband, now,” she says, growling like a warning. 

“As the lady wishes,” he says, giving her a cheeky grin. “Take hold of me,” he tells Athelstan, leading his hand again. It’s the first time Athelstan has touched another man’s cock. He is thick and solid and Athelstan holds onto the root of it while Ragnar moves to Lagertha, joining her until Athelstan’s hand in the only thing between them, pressed flat between their bodies. 

It’s abundantly clear that he must pull his hand away from them as they begin to move but he explores what he can.

“Keep your hands on us,” Ragnar says, already breathless with effort. “I want to know where you are.”

Athelstan settles next to them, lying on his side, propped on his elbow while he touches. It feels more like extreme privilege than command to lie so near them, to get to watch. He presses his cheek to Ragnar's flexing arm and touches Lagertha’s clavicle, the sternal bone between her breast, before stroking over a nipple. 

She moans arches up. “Your mouth, Athelstan. There.”

He leans down to kiss the pert, dark skin. He does it lightly, just an awkward kiss, until Ragnar’s hand on his head holds his head in place. “Open your mouth. Suck,” Ragnar says. “Gentle. But tease her, too. She’s more stubborn than a goat and deserves it.”

Lagertha makes a snarling noise, something that’s both like warning and like laughter. The pace of Ragnar’s thrust changes, halting and slower and Athelstan tries to see what they’re doing while he’s still suckling at her breast. Ragnar is rubbing a thumb above where he’s joined her and Lagertha suddenly grabs Athelstan’s shoulder, squeezing him hard, her body trembling and then she gasps, and almost laughing. 

“Stop. Enough...” she whispers, swatting feebly at both the back of Athelstan’s head and Ragnar’s hand away from her sex.

“Fierce,” Ragnar whispers to her, lovingly, praising, and then he kisses her more tenderly than Athelstan has ever seen. He’s in love with them, he thinks. Maybe not for himself. He is not sure he’s the kind of person who is meant to know this kind of love, but for them together, he loves what they are.

Lagertha opens her arm to him and Athelstan slides close to her, pillowing his head in the crook of her shoulder near her breast, and they hold each other while Ragnar pushes into her. They are both jarred by the force of Ragnar’s effort. He braces one hand on Athelstan’s hip, using his body for leverage. It almost hurts, he expects he’ll be bruised by it, but Athelstan can bide because he knows Ragnar is nearly there.

He doesn’t know what makes him do it, but it feels natural to cup his hand over Lagertha’s breast and it must have been right because Ragnar smirks and then his face goes slack, eyes fluttering shut as his climax hits. He presses hard one last time, arching into Lagertha as his seed spills.

Ragnar lies on top of her, heedless of his weight upon her, his breathing labored. He’s half covering Athelstan’s body as well, and he lies still, stroking Ragnar’s sweaty neck and the meat of muscle in his shoulder. 

“Ragnar Lothbrok,” Athelstan says, barely above a whisper. “Please, do not go.” 

Ragnar raises himself then, shifts from Lagertha and half rolls on top of him.

“Do not ask that again, Athelstan,” he says, holding him by the back of the neck. He’s says it with a smile but there’s warning in his eyes. 

He doesn’t dare mention his concern for his countrymen right now, but asks, “How am I to carry on without you? Both of you?”

“The children know what jobs to do. You will learn,” Lagertha says.

“The Gods will look after all of us until we return,” Ragnar adds.

Athelstan means to ask more questions. He means to touch them both, to kiss them again, to revel in the feel of their hands on his body. He wishes he could never sleep and keep the night from ever shifting into day again. 

But sleep finds his weary and satiated body anyway, and in the morning, he stands with the children, watching them go, and prays for their safe return.

 

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to Quizzical and Abigail89 for their beta help and input!
> 
> I acknowledge the likelihood of historical, linguistic and Biblical inaccuracies.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
